07.14.05

Oh, by the way, Happy Bastille Day.

Sure, I'm late. It's been like that--as if I'm always playing catch up. It's like watching the theory of relativity in action.

Just watched a punk history on IFC and now feel very, very old. It was startling to recognize the old 9:30 Club with the Bad Brains on stage. The old, black velvet curtains that covered the huge, blocked off windows--always with burns and marks and holes and a stench that screamed cigarettes, beer and vomit. Then that horror, nostalgia, washed over me.

I remembered the old 9:30. At 930 F St. NW. The name of the building must've come from its early- to mid-Victorian heyday. In once-bold, gold-leaf letters, with matte gold shadows, the name of the building--the Atlantic. The long, long hallway with black and white tiles. The chalkboard green and institutional green of the walls. Showing my underage ID and getting in anyway--with a big, black, permanent markered X on the back of my hand. That meant I couldn't be served. It was so cool, a place that had the music and people I liked. They were doing things, making them happen, having adventures, and fights, and dramas. I loved it. Loved the anything goes aesthetic. Having interesting conversations with smart people, my age. Learning how to flirt a little. Sitting in the eternally humid, raw brick-walled basement--either in the coat check (on the 1960s mod, corner sofa covered in hot pink Naugahyde), or in the dressing room. The dressing room was covered in band graffiti. Little rooms led one into another with odd corners, low ceilings, and badly damaged bits of wall.

Wednesday nights were 3 bands, 3 bucks nights. I remember driving downtown the first Wednesday after I got my driver's license at 16. It was almost like being what I thought an adult would be.

I loved that place.

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